Bright lights cast sunspots across my vision as the guards drag me along a white corridor. I blink repeatedly, still struggling to clear my sight. I worry that the blow to my head did some permanent damage, as the guards throw me back down on the ground.

“Shut up and stay put,” one low, masculine voice grunts.

I shield my eyes from the blinding lights and continue blinking as the shadowy figures disappear, sealed behind a white door. A slam echoes around the chamber, which I assume to be small, from the ringing in my skull. I’m tempted to shout out, but I know it’s useless. No one here is going to help me.

Instead, I focus on trying to regain my vision. I rub my eyes—perhaps there’s some dust or something else trapped there that I can free. Every time I open them, the light feels brighter, hotter, whiter. I place my hands on the white wall next to me and stare at a single point, trying to bring any details into focus.

The wall is sleek and cool to the touch, like ceramic tiles. As I focus on the small area in front of my face, I notice a grid of grey-ish material running through it. I trace my fingers along the rough line of grouting and steady my breathing.

Another clang sounds in the chamber, followed by a hiss, then a gurgling roar. Freezing water stabs at my skin, and I’m soaked through in an instant. I shriek and clutch at my body, trying to protect myself from the icy daggers pricking my neck, my face, my hands. The more I curl up, the harder the water rains down on me.

I cover my head and sink into the corner, pressing my side against the cold tiles. The water continues flooding the chamber, one agonising heartbeat after another, until my flesh becomes raw, then numbed by the sudden downpour.

As suddenly as it started, the water stops. The pipes overhead give a metallic shriek of protest. Panting and disoriented, I start shivering uncontrollably.

“Strip.” A voice booms.

I glance about wildly, still practically blind. No shadow stands in the chamber with me—everywhere is white. “Wh-what?”

This time, I catch the crackle of electricity before the voice booms again—a speaker hidden in the ceiling. “Take your clothes off. Leave them in the corner.”

Clutching the soaked material at my shoulders, I shake my head. “I don’t—”

“Strip! Now, or I’ll fetch the taser-net.”

My stomach sinks, and I slowly peel the sodden clothes from my body. If I was numb before, it was a blessing. The moment I undress, every inch of my skin screams in agony from the frigid air. My teeth chatter, and my fingers refuse to co-operate, so I’m forced to go through the motions by muscle memory as opposed to any feedback from my senses.

Once I’ve finished, the chamber echoes with another clang. The shadows return and approach. I’m thankful that I can’t see the expressions on their face, their reaction to my naked shivering body. They each grab one of my arms. “Squat,” the man barks.

Before I can say anything, they push me down and order for me to cough. It takes three attempts before they’re satisfied. They throw a bundle of fabric at me, and I clutch it against my chest.

“Get dressed. Quickly.”

I scramble with the cloth, but I can’t tell where it ends or begins. In my current state of semi-blindness, it’s just a mess of grey fabric. I touch the occasional button or zipper, but I can’t even figure out whether it’s a jumpsuit or a shirt.

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“What are you doing?” the man says, his irritation obvious. “Do you want to stand here naked all day?”

I stammer and fumble with the fabric, dropping it on the soaking floor. Dropping to my knees, I clumsily cover my body again. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Jonah, she can’t see,” the other guard says in a low voice.

“Huh? She can see just fine, right?” Jonah turns to me.

I gulp. I couldn’t even convince Harding that nothing was wrong. What made me think I could make it through reform with no one noticing? “I— I think it happened when I got hit—”

“No one hit you,” Jonah says.

“Right,” I say, focusing on the floor. I clench my jaw, desperate to correct him, but there’s no use in that.

Perhaps they know all about Harding’s methods; maybe they’re all just the same. I’ve barely ever crossed paths with a warden before I left college, so I wouldn’t know. I stayed in my lane, kept to my own business, and I never had to find out. Maybe they’re all heavy-handed assholes. Or maybe they’re just blissfully ignorant, and they think they’re on the right side. Either way, arguing with them right now won’t help me.

“I hit my head,” I continue, keeping my tone measured, “and now my eyesight’s blurry.”

The second shadow comes near me, holding a hand up to my face. “How many fingers?”

I shrug. “Three?”

He whispers something to Jonah, who sighs and storms out. Once the door clangs shut, his shadow turns back to me. “I’m gonna help you get dressed, okay?”

My teeth chatter so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it, but I press back against the wall, desperate to keep away from him. “I’m fine, really—”

“I’m not going to try anything.” His voice drops to a murmur. “I’m with Frank.”

Before I can voice any of the hundreds of questions which fight for my attention, he continues in a brighter, louder tone.

“So I sent my buddy to get the physician to check you over. If you don’t wanna be naked when they get here—”

“I’m good,” I say quickly, taking the dry bundle he hands me. “It’s okay.”

With the guard’s help, I get into the dry clothes—a pair of loose drawstring pants and a t-shirt. While I struggle to pull the top down over my damp, goose-pimpled skin, he murmurs behind me. “I can’t do much, but I’m working on it. Any messages for Frank?”

I shake my head. What could I say? Get us the fuck out of here?

But then I remember the crate I left under the warehouse, and I’m desperate to let him know about it.

“Theres a box,” I whisper. “Oblivion. Under the hatch, twelve bottles.”

I don’t know why it matters. Our chances of freedom are slim to none. I’ve heard the stories about reform, the torture they put people through. Who knows what’s in store for me outside of this room? But if Frank and Lena find out what we’ve done, perhaps they’ll be more likely to try getting us all out.

Or maybe I’ve just given them the only information I had to bargain with.

“Good,” the guard says. “All received.”

The white chamber opens and two shadows reenter, one wearing lighter grey clothes, presumably the physician. They reach for my face and angle my head, using my jaw and cheeks to inspect me. Without a word, they make a disdainful sound in the back of their throat and leave again, with Jonah at their side.

The door closes.

“They’ll treat your injury soon,” Frank’s guard says. “Try to keep your head down, do what they say. I’ll send the message.”

“What’s your name?” I ask as quietly as I can manage.

“It’s me, Ike.”

From Emotiv, the young guy with caramel skin and a photo folder full of art. “The artist?”

“One and the same. Now, act scared.”

“What?”

Ike grabs me by the wrists and drags me along the floor, pulling my feet from under me. I fall and hit the floor on one knee, but he carries on pulling me, tugging my arm so hard I feel like my shoulder is going to pop out.

I don’t have to act. Not for this. It’s much harder to put on the brave face and keep calm. Ike’s just given me permission to let out my true feelings, to embrace the snivelling coward within.

“Where are you taking me?” I whine, struggling to stay on my feet.

Ike pulls me along a darkened corridor—such a stark contrast to the bright white chamber that it’s like being completely blinded. “To the dorm.”

“What’s the dorm?”

“No more questions.” Ike’s tone is harsher, more business-like.

If he hadn’t told me it was him, I never would have guessed. I struggle to remember him standing in Emotiv, the sun dusting his black hair in glitter, that lopsided smile whenever he mentioned Dani’s name. I can’t reconcile that version of him with this one. I can only hope that this is his real act.